TRAVELS WITH LILY

I confess that I felt some anxiety about flying with our dog as we were relocating to France. Lily was never much of a traveler: for starter, she would routinely get car sick after a twenty-minute ride. Our ace in the hole was that she was used to sleeping in her crate and had no issue with being confined overnight. Her small size gave us the option of flying her in the cabin with us but I was still concerned about her spending some twelve hours enclosed in her carrier. All pets have different personalities but I thought I would share our experience about Lily’s Excellent Adventure and about her new life in France: other humans might glean some insight to make their four-legged companion’s travel less stressful.

Are we there yet? My uncles Rick and Jim gave us a ride to the airport in their motorhome. Loved it!

1/ First things first: not all airlines accept pets in cabin (or in cargo, for that matter) so check airline websites for their pet travel policies. Those that do allow pets in cabins limit the number of animals on a given flight. Except for service or emotional support animals, your pet will be confined in his carrier for the duration for the flight, and the carrier must fit under the seat in front of you (that pretty much nixes flying Business Class outfitted with a lie-flat seat.) And yes, the carrier counts toward your luggage allowance. Find out the maximum dimensions of the allowable carrier and train your pet to spend time in it. In our case, we switched Lily from her “spacious” hard crate to the much smaller soft carrier four months before departure, hiding treats inside to motivate her to explore her new digs and feel more at home.

Oooh! Lots of new scents at the farm!

2/ Book your flight several months ahead with an airline rep. Websites will not tell you whether the “animal quota” for a given flight has been reached. I wanted to use United Airlines miles for our flight. I checked online for award availability around our desired departure date; then I called their reservation center to inquire about having a pet in cabin on my preferred itinerary and confirmed that we could bring Lily with us; I booked our flights and asked the rep to add Lily to my reservation ($125 extra.) I printed my ticket receipt and made sure the “pet in cabin” was listed on it.

A mole hill! First, dispatch the dirt; then, sink the nose into the hole.

3/ Several health documents need to be filled and verified before your pet can fly with you and the requirement vary with origin and destination. Stacie, a Facebook friend who regularly flies to France with her compagnon à quatre pattes, shared many helpful pointers. Do not assume that your veterinarian is well-versed on that topic: do your own research on the government pages of the country you will be visiting. Regulations and forms are complex. I strongly encourage you to visit the Pet Travel Store and to order the appropriate forms from them: they will be tailored to your destination and pet species.

I just know there is a mouse hiding between these logs.

4/ Make sure that your vet is accredited by the USDA: our regular vet was on maternity leave and her substitute was not USDA accredited: we had to make an appointment at another veterinary clinic. Your pet must be implanted with an ISO 15-digit non-encrypted microchip. EU authorities will not be able to read other styles of microchips: you’ll either need to have the “correct” microchip inserted by your vet or rent/purchase your own microchip reader. A microchip certificate must be filled by the vet. Your pet must be vaccinated for rabies at least 21 days prior to entry and the vet must fill out the EU Veterinary Certificate from France (7 pages) not more than 12 days prior to your travel date. IN BLUE INK (I don’t know why but I’ve learned to never question bureaucracy…) Then, the certificate must be taken (or mailed) to your USDA/APHIS/US Area Office, along with a check for $38, for certification; use Express Mail both ways as you will need the certification to fly out. You also must complete a Declaration of Non-Commercial Movement. Additionally, most airlines require a Veterinary Certificate for Domestic and International Airline Travel where you vet states that your pet is healthy enough to travel, is free of parasites, shows no evidence of diseases communicable to humans, and has a valid vaccination against rabies.

I’ll just watch my territory from the front door. And work on my tan.

5/ All these forms constitute the “Pet Passport” and must be presented when you check in for your flight. It’s a good idea to have a set of copies with you as some airlines will want to retain the information and check-in counters do not usually have a copy machine nearby. The originals stay with you for entry into France.

My new cousins are cool. Aunt Françoise also keeps two cats and one hen. I’m not too fond of them; I like to chase them but that big chicken is a bit scary.

To make sure that Lily met all requirements, I booked our flights four months in advance, ordered the forms from PetpassportStore.com, contacted my vet to make sure the microchip was the 15-digit style, scheduled an appointment 10 days prior to our departure (we spent two solid hours at the vet’s office: they’re just not familiar with the forms and requirements) and sent Rick to the USDA office in Sacramento the same day. Just to be on the safe side, I asked our vet to prescribe some Cerenia, an anti-nausea drug, that we gave her before the car and plane travels. We also had a mild sedative on hand in case she got too agitated in the plane but we didn’t use it.

Where is this delicious French food I keep hearing about?

To make the trip easier on our little girl, we decided to break the journey in three chunks so she wouldn’t be confined for the equivalent of a day and a half: I booked a pet-friendly hotel at SFO airport where we spent the night before the flight and I also reserved a pet-friendly hotel near Orleans for the day of our arrival. Besides, I just couldn’t imagine driving all the way down to Gourdon right after landing at CDG…

After a nice Sunday lunch, I got to nap in the hammock with Cousin Brice.

Documents were thoroughly reviewed by the airline rep when we checked in but les douaniers didn’t bat an eye when we arrived in Paris. We were pleasantly surprised by Lily’s demeanor throughout the trip in spite of a flight delay of three and half hour: she made friends with several passengers at the gate who turned out to be seated in the row in front of us. Kudos to the crew on our United Airlines flight: they encouraged us to get her out of her carrier and to hold her on our laps for takeoff and landing. They also offered to give her some water. Well, I didn’t want to tempt fate and watched her water intake like a hawk but Lily is blessed to have a bladder of steel! The long car ride went smoothly as well. I was a proud mama.

Mom says I still need to work on my table manners.

This whole experience transformed our dog into an enthusiastic traveler: she even hops into the car with Rick when he’s taking garbage to the dump. She has adjusted to her new life very quickly. Most people think of dachshunds as lap dogs but they were actually bred to hunt badgers and Lily would make her ancestors very proud: she actively patrols her territory and sniffs out taupes, hérissons et lézards. She even caught une souris ! She’s great with the neighbors’ dogs, not so much with their cats. I think she was really meant to lead an active country life. She is active, happy, and enthusiastic. We’ll just need to enroll her in “finishing school” so she can become one of those well-behaved French dogs who patiently seat under a café table while her humans enjoy a beer en terrace…

 
Vocabulary
Un compagnon à quatre pattes: four-legged companion
Le douanier: customs officer
La taupe: mole
Le hérisson: hedgehog
La souris: mouse
En terrace: outdoors

IMPORTANT. The informations supplied above applied to our specific situation: flying from the US to France with one dog in July 2018. Requirements can vary depending on several factors such as pet species, number of animals traveling, country of origin, destination, stopovers, etc.

NIGHTTIME IN CARCASSONNE

I had visited Carcassonne a few times before but always during the day. This time, I booked a hotel room inside La Cité to experience the medieval fortified city at night, when lights and shadows dance on the massive stone walls. Since cars are not allowed within the walls of the old city, we had to leave our rental in a parking lot and trek uphill to the hotel. Let’s just say that pulling wheeled luggage on narrow alleys “paved” with protruding galets makes for a challenging and noisy experience… But what a reward! On an October night, we were almost alone while circling the city between the two walls of fortifications. Here are a few pictures to share so you can imagine what an atmospheric experience it was.

Vocabulary
Le galet: river rock

Porte Narbonnaise, the main entrance

Lices Hautes, in between the two fortified walls

Between the two walls, looking toward the Château Comtal

Shadow of the exterior wall projected onto the interior one

Peeking into Porte Saint Nazaire

Porte d'Aube. This entrance has been featured in many movies, including the 1991 film Robin Hood, directed by Kevin Reynolds.

THE CANNERY

Continued from Modesto, first look

We left Yosemite Park and returned to Modesto: after taking in the view from Glacier Point, mingling with very friendly écureuils, and driving through a giant sequoia it was time to get back to civilization and get ready for work. We were settling in Modesto for a few weeks to fulfill one of our business school requirements: we had to work for one month en usine, performing blue-collar tasks. Some of our friends had done seasonal work in California canneries during previous summers and we had a visa that authorized us to be employed. The procedure was straight forward: show up, sign up, and wait to be called. Hence the importance of having a domicile fixe and a phone number.

We drove to the apartment we had agreed to rent a few days before only to find out the manager no longer wanted us to be tenants: she had called the cannery and realized we would be leaving after a month. Que faire? We had to find another place. We hooked up with other students: they were renting an apartment on Paradise Road and another unit was available. We rushed over there to check it out and it was perfect: spacious and furnished, with laundry facilities and a swimming pool! Only ten minutes from the cannery with our Torino! It would truly be paradise.

A couple of days later, I was starting my first shift as a sorter: basically, I spent eight hours standing in front of a moving belt carrying loads of tomatoes. My job was to look for and remove any fruit that exhibited black mold and to discard anything that did not meet the definition of tomato: weeds, soda cans, small animals, etc. Since tomatoes were harvested by giant aspirateurs, everything that was present in the field would get sucked in. I must say it was the hardest job I ever had. Although I was assigned to the morning shift, August temperatures routinely reached 95ºF and the sorters’ lines were set outside, under a metal roof. Standing in one place for eight hours was uncomfortable and staring at tomatoes continuously moving before my eyes was making me dizzy and mildly seasick. To add insult to injury, my supervisor was not very impressed by my performance and kept urging me to “try to be a little faster with your hands.”

After a couple of days, she thankfully moved me to another position (clean up duties) and we eventually became good friends. We chatted during lunch and breaks; she had three French students working in her shift and she was curious about our native country and our travel plans after our stage. One day she asked me where we were staying; I happily shared our address on Paradise Road. She was absolutely horrified. Unbeknownst to us, our “paradisiac” apartment was located in one of the worst neighborhoods. In fact, a dead body had been found in our dumpster the week before we moved in! I’m happy to report that none of us got killed or maimed. We didn’t interact with our neighbors very much (we worked 6 days a week) but I’ll never forget that day in August 1977 when Elvis died: everybody seemed to congregate outside their apartments in disbelief and talk about what The King meant to them. Of course, all the radio stations were playing his songs. For some reason, it felt like the end of an era; we were not Americans but I felt we were all sharing a significant moment.

We spent four weeks on Paradise Road while working at the cannery. Tomato is still one of my favorite foods. I discovered turkey lunch meat, American cheese, and Mexican salsa. My coworkers looked at me with amusement at first but, eventually, took me into their fold and brought me plums, figs, and peaches from their gardens. They even threw a mini lunch party on our last day at work, bringing home-made sweets and cookies. As we were getting ready for our big road trip across the United States, I said goodbye to my supervisor. Five years later, she became my belle-mère…

Vocabulary
L’écureuil: squirrel
En usine: in a factory
Le domicile fixe: lit. a permanent home, a residence
Que faire: what to do
L’aspirateur: vacuum cleaner
Le stage: internship
La belle-mère: mother-in-law. Also, stepmother

PASSAGE TO INDIA

I’ve already confessed my love of outdoor markets. One of the bright sides of living in the Central Valley is local availability of bountiful produce. Nevertheless, a stroll through a French market yields many pleasant surprises. Not just because of the different varieties of fruits and vegetables: cultural preferences in regards to size also play a part. I always know that I’m in France when the stalls brim with slender poireaux, tiny fraises des bois, diminutive aubergines… or huge balls of céleri rave without knobs. In Paris, I’m particularly fond of Marché Bastille: the aisles are not too narrow and the selection of ingredients and prepared dishes is quite extensive. If you wish, you can even purchase a plate of chucked oysters and a glass of Muscadet to enjoy sur place.

In July 2011, I met a vendor whose offering was not of the edible kind but turned out to be the highlight of my day. He was selling leather-bound notebooks. They all looked different and varied in size, thickness, and color. Some covers were smooth, some were a bit rugged, others were stamped but they all showed an unmistakable antique patina. Each one was hand-made and tied with two or three feet of black string. He explained that he had bought a pallet of accounting ledgers from India. He unfolded one of these ancient leather books and unveiled yellowed pages filled with Sanskrit. He would cut pieces from their long covers, wrap them around a folio of white paper, and saddle stitch the whole thing together to create new books. They were beautiful. I purchased four of them, intending to keep one for myself and give the others to friends who would use them to sketch or journal. As I was relishing their smooth buttery texture between my fingers, I wondered whose hands had stroked that same leather a long time ago, in a land far, far away.

Vocabulary
Le poireau: leek
La fraise des bois: wild strawberry
L’aubergine: eggplant
Sur place: on the premises

MODESTO, FIRST LOOK

Continued from The Torino.

The trip had been planned in great details. After landing in California, we would purchase a car, drive to Modesto to register at the cannery where we would work for one month, then start our road trip across the USA, staying at campgrounds along the way. The itinerary was set and dates were nailed down so we could pick up mail from France at General Delivery in some of the cities we would pass through. Our own version of “If it’s Tuesday, it must be New Orleans…”

After buying our mustard yellow Torino, we were chomping at the bit: still in Oakland (nothing to see), so close to San Francisco (lots to see.) We decided to drive across the bridge for a first taste of the City by the Bay. Spectacular! We spent most of our time around Fisherman’s Wharf, admiring Alcatraz surrounded by jade waters, and trying out a sandwich at Boudin's. We realized that French bread, like French dressing, was not really French after all. Late afternoon, we picked up some groceries at Safeway in the Marina district and headed out to the Berkeley Hills: our California map showed a tent icon there, indicating the presence of a campground.

It was dusk, and then it was dark. We were still trying to find that campground. Eventually, we noticed a wooded area with some picnic tables and a couple of parked cars. We had arrived. We turned our flashlights on, unloaded the gear, set up the tents, cooked some pork chops and rice, and called it a day. The next morning, it quickly became obvious that our first camping night had been sauvage: there were no facilities of any kind save for the picnic tables. But we were prepared for everything: teeth were brushed and business was done, in a very ecological manner. We boiled water for coffee, fried some eggs, and devour them with untoasted white bread. We packed our gear and headed out to Modesto.

We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and filled up the Torino at a station service on 5th Street. As soon as we got out of the car, we were immediately welcomed by the infamous Valley heat, a prelude to the temperatures we would contend with during the whole month of August. We drove to the cannery, signed up at the personnel office and told Kathy (personnel manager) we would give her our address and phone number as soon as we had secured an apartment to rent. We spent that night camping at the Modesto Reservoir, a legit campground. Taking a shower was wonderful, watching young Americans brush their teeth under a running faucet was surprising: I was the only one using a plastic goblet. Does your father own the water company?

We drove to town early, had breakfast at –the now defunct– Smitty’s coffee shop on 9th Street, picked up a copy of the Modesto Bee, and poured over the “For Rent” ads to find an apartment. We only needed a place for one month and there were seven of us but, in reality, we would be working different shifts: a two-bedroom apartment would suffice. We drove to Villa Verde South on Coffee Road, had a pleasant meeting with the manager where I pretended there were only three of us: me, my “brother," and my “boyfriend.” We were quite impressed by the spaciousness of the apartment, at least, by Parisian standards! I signed on the dotted line, paid the security deposit and one month rent. We congratulated ourselves for finding a place so easily and arranged to get phone service tout de suite. We knew the cannery would not need us for a few days and we drove off to Yosemite. What could possibly go wrong?

To be continued...

Vocabulary
Le camping sauvage: lit. wild camping; setting up your tent in an area not specifically designated for camping.
La station service: gas station
Tout de suite: right away.

THE TORINO

Continued from The Arrival

Right after our protein-rich American breakfast, we picked up a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle to scour the classifieds in search of the perfect vehicle. Our knowledge of American cars was pretty much confined to what we had seen on TV and on the silver screen: Steve McQueen’s Mustang and Michael Douglas’s Ford Galaxie. But we knew American cars came in two sizes: huge and huger. We needed something in the "huger" category to transport seven passengers, suitcases, tents, and sleeping bags. We zeroed in on station wagons priced at $1000 or less and found two candidates. We split up: Fred and Jean-Marc took BART to check on the two leads, the rest of us stayed in Oakland to kick tires at used car lots on Auto Row. We would rendezvous at the end of the day at the Hilton where our first night was comped.

First off, we hunted down a Western Union office to send telegrams (telegrams!) to our families. We could find public pay phones at every street corner but they were not a good option because of the amount of change required for international calls. The nine hours of décalage horaire didn’t help either. Then we walked up and down Broadway in search of a suitable car. Dismal results. After several hours spent trekking in the sun and fighting sleepiness, we only had one viable prospect: a mustard yellow Ford Torino with 135,000 miles on the odometer and a price tag of $1200. We hoped Jean-Marc and Fred had better luck. Alas, they came back bredouille as well: the first car had already been sold by the time they got to that address; the second one, all the way south in Daly City, turned out to be a tas de ferraille.

We comforted ourselves with a meal of Big Macs, French fries and chocolate shakes. In our book, this was quite a treat: there were only two McDonalds in Paris in 1977 (or in France, for that matter) and eating at a fast food joint was borderline elitist. In retrospect, it sounds very weird. Summarizing our day, we realized that intellectual knowledge and life experience are two sides of a coin. Our tired feet confirmed what our foggy brains had known for some time: European cities are dense, American ones are spread out. Utterly exhausted, we retired for the evening with the assurance that tomorrow would be another day: we were in America and Scarlet had said so.

The next morning, we quickly gulped down a Continental breakfast. We knew we would have to check out soon and it would be impossible to go car hunting with all our luggage: we agreed to bust the budget and buy the Torino. After a bit of negotiation, we shook hands with the dealer for $1150 and a spare tire. Traveler's checks (traveler's checks!) were signed and I was now the proud owner of one seventh of a car, my first car. Set up with our own wheels, camping gear, and a brand new copy of the Guide du Routard, we felt free, independent, and confident. We were looking forward to the most excellent adventures. They started that very night when we camped in the hills of Berkeley.

Continues at Modesto, First Look

Vocabulary
Le décalage horaire: time difference
Bredouille: empty handed
Le tas de ferraille: scrapheap, lit. a pile of scrap iron
Le Guide du Routard: The Rough Guide (at that time, the Rough Guides were quite a bit “rougher” than their current edition. They were the hitchhiker and backpacker’s bible and promoted traveling on a dime.)

BANLIEUSARDS

You will meet three different types of people in Paris: tourists, Parisians, and banlieusards. It’s actually quite easy to tell them apart. Tourists go to the Eiffel Tower because it’s there. Parisians don’t go to the Eiffel Tower because it will be there next week. Banlieusards don’t go to the Eiffel Tower because they don’t have the time. When I lived in France, I was a banlieusarde; I didn’t take the elevator to the top of la Tour Eiffel until I was 21 years old and my (future) parents-in-law visited Paris for the first time. Our house was only 7 miles outside of Paris per se; I studied or worked in the city; I had a full schedule during the week, spent two hours (or more) in public transportation every day, and aspired to “stay put” during the weekend. Living in the suburbs, I was always dependent on the last métro, the last RER, the last commuter train to take me back home. It changes everything. It affects the way you experience Paris: you don’t really belong there, you’re just passing through. It was indeed a special treat when I could spend the night at a friend’s apartment in Paris: the accommodations were usually far from luxurious (!) but not feeling the pressure of having to get home was liberating: for one evening, I could feel and behave like a Parisian.

Actually, there is another type of people you might meet in Paris: parisophiles. They’re a rare breed and they’re hard to spot. They were not born in Paris but they chose that city. Maybe they started as tourists but felt such an intense connection that they were drawn back many times. They don’t just come for a week: they stay for a month or more. They don’t book hotels: they rent an apartment. They don’t go out for dinner every night: they shop the outdoor markets and cook “at home.” They have their favorite neighborhoods but they want to explore every nook and cranny of the city. They want to see and experience everything whether glamorous or ordinary, beautiful or ugly, historical or avant-garde, popular or secluded, permanent or pop-up. They have the luxury of time: they can afford to make mistakes and “waste” an afternoon at a so-so exhibit because tomorrow is another day… still in Paris.

I started out as a banlieusarde; I’ll never be a Parisian but I’ve become a parisophile. What about you? Who are you? Who do you aspire to be?

Vocabulary
Le (la) banlieusard(e): commuter, living in the suburbs.

TO MARKET, TO MARKET

France has not been immune to the transformation of the retail scene: big box stores and supermarkets ushered the sad decline of old-fashioned, family-owned specialty shops. But one tradition is holding steady: the weekly open-air markets. I simply love them, especially those in the countryside where just about everything offered is farmed or raised locally.

When my sister and her family moved to Grenade-sur-Garonne, our Saturday morning routine included a long visit to la halle, the medieval covered structure in the center of town. Farmers and vendors display their bounty under the tile roof and along the adjacent streets: mounds of tasty saucissons (made from a dozen different meats), regiments of disks and pyramids of chèvres perfectly lined up in their refrigerated cases, baskets of brown eggs with an occasional feather stuck to their shell, colorful bunches of cut flowers soaking in tall galvanized buckets, and produce galore. As a little game, I would ask my toddler nephews to identify and name every single légume we saw while filling our cabas. Afterwards, we’d grab an outdoor table at one of the cafés lining up the square and order un Ricard or un demi for the adults, une orangeade avec une paille for the younger set.

La halle de Grenade is quite remarkable: with its thirty-six octagonal brick pillars and massive oak carpentry, it was specifically built in the 13th century to hold a weekly market. Weights and measures were kept in one of the upstairs loges; another one was used as a workplace for the judge, the mayor, or the notaire. Pigeons still roost there.

In addition to the market, la halle is also the site of special events such as the famous “Sausage Fair” organized by the Confrèrie Gourmande et Joviale de la Saucisse de Grenade. Pageantry is served, along with endless arguments about the merits of the local sausage versus the one made in Toulouse, a mere 15 miles away…

Vocabulary
La halle: covered market
Le saucisson: dry cured sausage (like salami)
Le chèvre: goat cheese
Le légume: vegetable
Le cabas: old-fashioned grocery bag
Le Ricard: brand of a pastis drink
Le demi: draft beer
L’orangeade: water with orange syrup
Avec une paille: with a straw
Le notaire: a public officer who records contracts, property inheritance, wills and other documents in every area of law

LA GRANDE BOUCLE

How my grandfather Albert liked his Tour de France! Every afternoon in July, he would take a break from working in the fields, turn on the radio, and sit down at the kitchen table to listen to the live broadcast. When they finally got TV reception at the farm in the mid-60s, he could actually watch his favorite riders comme en vrai. Jacques Anquetil, Raymond Poulidor, Eddie Merckx were his heroes. Personally, I found the race extremely boring and saw enough close-ups of hairless legs pushing on pedals to last me a lifetime.

I've changed my tune, though. Not because I suddenly developed an appreciation for la petite reine: I just enjoy the scenery. The increased use of helicopters transformed how the race is filmed and won over a new group of spectators: armchair travelers who discover the variety of the French regions without leaving their living room and the 64” flat screen. It’s cheaper than a plane ticket and, if you care at all about the race itself, it gives you a fantastic overall view of the stage leaders, the peloton, and everyone in between. Muscular calves are getting short-changed but I don’t mind that.

Le Tour de France is believed to be the most popular sporting event in the world: where else can millions of fans watch champions compete in the most prestigious bicycle race sans débourser un centime? Just line up along the road; catch goodies thrown from la caravane, arm yourself with a bottle of sunscreen, or an umbrella. The weather can be unpredictable even in the middle of summer.

In July 1997, Rick and I spent a few days at my sister’s apartment right outside of Paris. That third Sunday of the month was the final stage of the Tour and the riders were scheduled to barrel around our corner right after lunch. The guys walked down the street to catch the action and a glimpse of le maillot jaune. It was a hot day. Francoise and I decided to stay in. We turned on the TV, hoping to spot our husbands’ sexy calves. No luck…

Vocabulary
La Grande Boucle: The Great Loop, nickname for the Tour de France
Comme en vrai: in person, lit. like in real (life)
La petite reine: nickname for a bicycle, lit. the little queen
Sans débourser un centime: without spending one cent, free
La caravane: the (publicity) caravan, a procession of advertising floats and vehicles that precede the race and distribute giveaways
Le peloton: the pack
Le maillot jaune: the leader of the race (he wears a yellow jersey)

Official Le Tour de France website

ON A WING AND A PRAYER

I’ll be flying to France today. I’ve lost track of how many transatlantic flights I’ve taken in my lifetime; it’s probably approaching two hundred. And yet, just like a young girl who knows nothing about physics, I still marvel that a huge, heavy metal tube can lift itself from Earth and travel through the air for hours. We take so much for granted but I guess I’ll never become blasé about that.

Perhaps people felt the same way in the 19th century when aviation pioneers were trying to defy gravity. Take Clément Ader, for instance. Inspired by the morphology of the bat, he engineered one of the first flying machines. And what a fantastic contraption it was! Three wheels suited for a child’s bicycle, 26-foot wings made of silk and bamboo, two steam engines powering crude propellers to –hopefully– carry 880 lbs up in the air.

It looks fragile. It’s a thing of beauty. See it for yourself at the Musée des Arts et Métiers in the 3rd arrondissement.